Sometimes It Snows In America

by Marisa Labozzetta

  “Oh, Mama.” Fatma sobbed to see her trying to say all this. “Do not repeat the sins of the past. Learn from the mistakes

  of others.”

  She had to stop now. She was exhausted. Fatma gave her some water through a straw. She coughed, closed her eyes and slipped into a sleep from which she seldom woke. Two days later she suffered another massive stroke that sent her, hemorrhaging, to her death. Fatma closed Auntie’s eyes. Hamal brought a clean sheet and covered Auntie’s body. Hamal’s wife took charge of caring for Auntie even after death. She immediately washed her body in rosewater and wrapped it in a new white cloth. Auntie was then taken to her favorite square in Mombasa, where an imam stood in front of her, his back to the family and townspeople who had gathered, and prayed in silence. As was Muslim custom, Hamal and his father-in-law and the other male mourners accompanied Auntie’s body to the cemetery, where she was laid in her grave on her right side, facing Mecca. Fatma removed her own earrings and diamond ring, as tradition forbade the wearing of decorative clothing or jewelry. Along with Hamal and his family, she sat quietly in the house for three days as neighbors brought sweets and fruit, and offered their condolences.

  All the time Fatma was mourning, she told herself that, if she truly loved Hussein, she would stay away from him. After all, what did she have to offer him? In time he would grow into manhood, and perhaps then he would learn about her and she would learn what it meant to be a mother like her shangazi. She would learn the meaning of sacrifice. She must not fall victim again to the false pride and greed of Iblis. This she tried to tell herself, but she could not accept it.

  *

  Fatma had paid for Auntie’s funeral. It was the best they could get under the circumstances. After her nieces and nephews had all come over to the Giriami and seen what the money of their American auntie could buy, Fatma left the hotel on the beach and went back to the busy center of town, where rooms at the Sapphire Hotel were only thirty dollars a night. One more person was too many in Auntie’s cramped house. Besides, she needed time alone to sort out what she had found and what she had left behind, and to gain a clearer image of where she was going. She also needed to use her money more wisely. She spent much of it on her nieces and nephews and their children, taking them shopping and enjoying being the rich American shangazi. She bought them what they believed were stylish products, but even Fatma noticed the misspelled labels that read NIKI or ADDIDAS. She didn’t tell them; they were so proud of what they thought were authentic American fashions.

  Hamal, who had once been a high-ranking member of the military in Somalia, now delivered soft drinks to hotels and grocery stores. And, while his family wasn’t starving, the tourism industry had suffered a blow from the terrorist bombing of the U.S. embassy two years before. There was an end to Fatma’s riches too, however, and she still longed to help those who had not escaped Somalia. It was in doing for others that we find a reason for living, Miss Wilma had told her on her first day at Haven House.

  While the Sapphire was comfortable enough, it was smaller than the Giriami and more run-down. There was a bar next door, not much more upscale than the Royal Lion, and it tempted Fatma. She phoned Miss Wilma once but could barely hear her for all the noise in Fatma’s room which had become a destination for her nieces and nephews. Going to see shangazi broke up the boredom of their day.

  “Who’s there? Who’s with you?” Miss Wilma asked suspi-ciously, imagining the worst, when Fatma phoned.

  “My family.” Fatma never phoned again. Miss Wilma and Sarah were in Willowsville, a world away, in a very big country that could never fit into Kenya.

  Some days she left them all in her room, sprawled on her bed watching TV, and took a matutu to the most beautiful beach in Mombasa, more beautiful than the beaches of Hawaii and Jamaica that Nick had taken her to. It was one of the few whose white sand and blue waters were devoid of garbage. It was also not frequented by the German tourists who, beneath umbrellas at their luxury hotels, lay with child prostitutes who had been included in their package deals, boys and girls who gave themselves to tourists with the hope that a European would take them away from the poverty of Mombasa. She scooped up a handful of the smooth white sand and for a few moments held in the palm of her hand the weight and texture of her childhood. As hard as she tried to hold on to it, it always slipped through her fingers.

  *

  While having tea with Hamal and his wife one afternoon, she told them she intended to go to Somalia. They nearly choked on their biscuits.

  “My dear sister,” Hamal said. “There is no going to Somalia.” “But they’re there. So many of our sisters and brothers, their children and grandchildren. And Ayasha. I want to see her again.” “The borders are closed,” Hamal’s wife said. “And there are pirates on the seas.” She was a small trim woman with graying hair that she covered begrudgingly when she went outside. She had been a real beauty in her youth and, while the years had taken their toll on her too, the independent spirit that had impressed Fatma as

  a child was in no way diminished.

  “Your family got through,” Fatma said.

  “That was years ago,” she retorted. “And do you know how? Yes, there are many places where you can sneak across illegally with a man who takes you to another man who takes you from there. You pay them a high sum of money, but it is still dangerous. There are shiftas on the Kenyan side – mercenaries who make money killing elephants and rhinos for their tusks. They are all Somali born, and they will rob you, even kill you. Plus, there are lions and other wild animals at the border. Sickness – malaria. No, Fatma. There is no going to Somalia.”

  “Then how can we reach them?”

  “We’ll go to the Barakaat office,” Hamal said. “That is the only way we can make contact from time to time. There are no addresses left in Somalia. The country is in shambles. That is the best we can do.”

  *

  They gave the name of their family tribe and the neighborhood they lived in, and the agents at Barakaat told them to return three hours later. When they did, the man said he had located one of the sisters and she was taken to the Barakaat office in Somalia. At five-fifteen the call came through. They could not talk long; the connection was bad and might be cut off at any moment. Their sister told Fatma that most of the family was living in the part of their mother’s house that had not been bombed. There was no plumbing or electricity, no postal system, no airlines. She named the nephews and brothers who had been killed by guerrillas, her husband and son included. And Ayasha? She and her husband were dead. He had been killed instantly; she had been wounded and later died from lack of medical treatment and antibiotics. Her son? He was alive – a good boy, a bright boy, who had been working as a photographer for passports. But there was no longer any use for passports, since no one left Somalia. “Father is blind and not well. Send money if you can. We have nothing.” The line went dead.

  “Father! What was she talking about?” Fatma asked Hamal. “Father has been dead for years.”

  “Uncle Abdullah,” Hamal said, smiling. “Father’s eldest brother. He is ninety-five now.” He was the frail kind man of Fatma’s childhood who had gone on safari with her and who had always seemed one hundred years old. “He assumed guardianship of all of us after Father’s death. He is the head of this family now. He is our father, and he will see that what you send is distributed fairly.” Fatma wired money right then through Barakaat; there were

  no banks left in Somalia. We once were the richest and most respected family in Somalia, she thought.

  “What’s happened to our family?” Fatma cried.

  “There is a conference going on now in Djibouti. It is an attempt to restore order in Somalia. The tribes are arranging for an election of a new president, someone who will be good for the country, someone who can put an end to the anarchy. Ever since the ousting of that bastard uncle of ours, Siad Adan, the tribes that overthrew him remain splintered and continue to fight among themselves for power. Not like America,
is it, my sister?”

  “People fight for power in America. People always fight for power.”

  Later that evening after dinner, Fatma asked Hamal why so many Somali women were wearing veils like their mother did, when they never used to.

  “There was a man – a Saudi, Osama bin Laden,” Hamal said. “He went to Somalia for a while to fight against the Americans who were there in what they thought was an attempt to restore stability. He brought strict notions of Islam. He preached men’s control of women, made slaves of them. You know the old Arab saying: The mule and the woman are equal.”

  Hamal’s wife took her napkin from the lap of her kanga, the brightly colored apron with a matching top she wore, and threw it onto the table in disgust.

  “It is not my saying,” Hamal assured her.

  Yes, Hamal had changed. Hardship had turned him into a better man, a compassionate one who valued life and family. His stern manner with outsiders masked it, but the gentleness with which he treated his wife and grandchildren made it very clear. Nick, Pia said, would never have changed.

  “You too have come through hard times,” Hamal said. “What did Jamila tell Rihana about me?” Fatma asked. “Jamila said nothing. That is how I know.”

  *

  That night, Iblis surfaced. She dreamt Nick was driving his big car filled with roses down Biashara Street with that frantic look in his eyes and shouting: “I’ll get you Fatma! I’ll get you, whore!” She was wearing a black buibui with a veil, and he could not pick her out of the crowd of Muslim women like her who seemed to be multiplying and filling the streets. But then, as a bloodhound smells a scent, he zeroed in on her using his car to mow down the ranks of black-draped figures, drawing closer. He was on her heels when she became aware that she was dreaming and woke herself up. Shaken, she dressed and walked downstairs and into the tiny bar to drink away thoughts of Nick and Hussein and her family.

  At the door, the odor of whiskey and urine and cigarette smoke pulled her in like groping hands. A young Kenyan woman in western clothes was flirting with several men at the bar when a man brushed by Fatma so roughly he nearly knocked her down. He walked straight up to the woman, yanked her off the stool by the hair and dragged her across the floor and out into the street. Fatma’s stomach muscles contracted; her insides burned. You are strong. You are the daughter of Muhammad, she repeated to herself as she turned around and crept back upstairs.

  Lamu

  Auntie’s maids, Lisha and Kiah, had been gone for quite some time. Kiah had married and moved to Nairobi not long after Daniel and Fatma left for America. But Lisha had stayed on in Mombasa, giving up her room to Hamal’s in-laws and moving into what was no more than a large pantry. She had died of an intestinal infection five years earlier, and the news of her death saddened Fatma. Lisha had been loyal to Auntie, who had taken her in and given her work when she was only twelve. She had

  loved Auntie; she had loved Fatma.

  Hamal couldn’t understand why Fatma cared to go to Lamu now with Lisha gone. Had she ever met members of her family?

  “Do you believe in jinns, Hamal?” He laughed.

  “Perhaps that was what killed Lisha,” she said.

  “What? Some evil jinn roaming around in her bowels?” “Maybe.”

  “And you have been in America all these years? Fatma, she died of colitis. All those other stories Lisha may have told you are old wives’ tales.” He looked around to make sure his wife wasn’t listening; the expression would have insulted her. “Ignorant people believe in jinns. Or people who can’t take responsibility for their own actions.” “I’ve made many mistakes, and I do take responsibility for them. But – ”

  “Look, if you want to go to Lamu, go. No one will stop you. They say it’s beautiful, if nothing else. But fly. There are bandits who are notorious for robbing matatus on the road to Lamu, and the trip is six or seven hours long.”

  She did want to go, she needed to sweep out every corner.

  *

  She rode in a matatu an hour and a half north to Malindi, where she took a small plane over to the island of Lamu. There are no roads in Lamu: the town isn’t big enough for vehicles, with the exception of the deputy commissioner’s car and the coastal services tractor, which collects trash and dumps it into the ocean. One either rides a donkey or walks, which at least makes for clean air. She hadn’t brought much – several changes of clothing and a bathing suit. She didn’t intend to stay longer than a day or two.

  She wandered past stone buildings huddled close together along with labyrinthine passageways, admiring the intricately carved doors (much more beautiful and ornate than those in Old Town Mombasa) that graced even ramshackle dwellings. A small shop resembling an ill-equipped American convenience store was, she would learn, the only establishment of its kind on Lamu, where most shopping was done at the open-air market. As she purchased a can of Coke and cleaned the top with the underside of her skirt, a young couple in scanty beach attire strolled into the store. Tourists like them were everywhere, like ants crawling among the citizens of Lamu, who went about their daily routines. The contrast between the exhibition of flesh and the hiding of it in religious Lamu was more striking than in Mombasa. The shopkeeper, an elderly man in western dress, seemed to appreciate Fatma’s long batik skirt and long-sleeved white top. His wife appeared in a bright green, blue, and yellow kanga over her clothes, with I like your behavior written in Swahili on the skirt as part of the decoration. This perhaps meant that she had chosen to wear the particular kanga because she was pleased with her husband’s current conduct. She smiled at Fatma and disappeared as quietly and as quickly as she had presented herself, obviously returning to their home, which must not have been far – maybe even upstairs. Fatma took an immediate liking to the clerk because of this dress. She asked him if he knew of Lisha and her family, and he did – everyone knew everyone in Lamu. Though Lisha had lived for so many years in Mombasa, she had traveled back home often. Did Fatma want to visit her family? No, she told him. What she was really looking for was a healer. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity but not surprise; her connection with Lisha had taken their relationship to a more intimate level. Fatma was sure it never crossed his mind to ask why she sought the healer; the people of Lamu are considerate.

  There was an assortment available. Assuring her that the one he recommended was a good choice – a traditional healer – he directed her to a hotel.

  “Asante!” She thanked him.

  “Bila asante!” He said. Don’t mention it.

  *

  Abd-al-Rahman’s white stucco house was hidden behind ferny foliage, red blossoms, and tall palms. A thatched awning amid the branches indicated where the doorway was. She knocked, and a man in his forties or fifties who resembled Denzel Washington, with a short black beard in a long prayer gown, appeared. A round white embroidered pillbox covered his crown. Her attraction to him alarmed her.

  “Abd-al-Rahman?” “Yes.”

  “You’re a healer?” she asked in Swahili.

  “Yes,” he said, and waited to hear her purpose for being there. She stood silent, intimidated by him.

  “You’re not what I expected,” she said, then quickly regretted the remark.

  “Hujambo. I hope I have not disappointed you.”

  “Hujambo. I have come to make an appointment with you.” “For when?”

  “For whenever you’re free.”

  “I’m free at present, and it seems that so are you.”

  He led her through a small courtyard with two cement benches built into the low wall surrounding it. Vines with wide leaves twisted up the whitewashed walls. As they climbed a flight of stairs to another courtyard, she could see a small primitive kitchen in an alcove. They continued up one more flight to a salon, from where she could see another room with a finely carved bed. They seemed to be alone in the sparsely furnished house. He motioned for her to sit on one of two wooden chairs that were as elaborately carved as the bed frame. He left and returned soon
afterward, carrying a large silver tray with a teapot and two cups that he placed on a small table. He sat across from her as he poured the tea. He watched her drink. She was worn out from her trip, and the tea was soothing. Leaving his cup untouched, he continued to observe her, which made her feel awkward. He put the tips of his fingers together as if in prayer and bowed his head, giving her permission to speak first.

  “Can you cure me of an evil jinn?” she asked. “You are possessed?” “Yes.”

  “What makes you believe so?”

  “It comes to me – especially at night. It calls me ugly names. It gets me angry. It makes me do bad things.” She told him her story, leaving out significant parts, like jail, and playing down her addictions. She told him her mother had been a priestess and that she had neglected to take her to a healer at birth. That she had perhaps picked up another jinn while walking under a baobab tree. She told him of her ghastly nights and of the jinns’ attempts to have her kill herself. He listened impassively even when she admitted that she had come from America and that all her difficulties had begun there. She began to relax and speak as she might in the ER, listing flu symptoms.